New York Continental Hotel.
Smith and Fox entered after giving the doorman two Continental gold coins.
Once inside, Smith didn't stop in the lobby but led Fox directly to the underground bar.
At the front desk, Charon noticed them heading to the bar and immediately picked up the phone.
"Manager Winston, the Smith you asked me to keep an eye on has arrived with Fox. They're heading to the bar area."
"Alright, I understand."
After hanging up, Charon murmured to himself, "Thank goodness I live and eat at the hotel—I don't need to leave."
Winston hung up and rubbed his forehead, muttering:
"Why are those two here?"
"Could the Assassin's League be making a move on my Continental Hotel?"
"Or maybe some unfortunate Black bastard has pissed off Smith again."
As the manager of the New York Continental, Winston had some understanding of the Assassin's League. Eighteen years ago, they were known for random killings, but suddenly they changed their style—now targeting only those who were notorious criminals or had committed grave sins.
Just in New York alone, many gang leaders and uncaptured serial killers had fallen to the Assassin's League, never once failing.
Because of this, the Continental and some gangs had reported the matter to the High Table. However, they didn't take any real action—just sent a single adjudicator who spoke with the League and then left.
Winston had heard rumors that the High Table had once invited the Assassin's League to join during its formation, even offering a seat as an Elder. The League declined.
Of course, several registered killers from the Continental had been killed by the League. Among them, Smith Doyle had killed especially many Black assassins, almost as if he targeted them.
Still, as long as no one was killed inside the hotel, Winston didn't care. Though, maybe Smith was here to identify targets? That thought made Winston quicken his pace.
······
After paying two more Continental coins, Smith and Fox entered the underground bar.
As they walked in, the killers in the bar all glanced at them, some intentionally, others instinctively.
While killing was forbidden in the Continental—especially in the bar area which served as the intelligence hub—assassins naturally took note of new arrivals.
When they recognized Smith Doyle, some killers paid no mind and even raised a glass to him.
But a few Black assassins immediately turned away, walked toward the restroom, or used hats to cover their faces.
Fox noticed all of this and leaned in to whisper:
"You're practically a Black-hunting assassin now."
"Look how scared those guys are."
Smith chuckled and replied casually:
"Our job is to cleanse the filth of this world, isn't it?"
"Every single one of them deserved it. Not one was a mistake."
Fox nodded seriously. Everyone here was a killer, mercenaries who took lives for money—there were no innocents among them. Killing them all wouldn't be wrong.
Still, Fox noted Smith's particular hatred for Black people. Ever since the League learned of his preferences, they stopped recruiting Black members altogether.
As they spoke, Smith walked to the bar and told the bartender, Eddie:
"Two Thunder Bourbons."
Eddie poured two glasses of whiskey and smiled:
"Smith, every time you visit, our business takes a hit."
"I bet they're all texting the other Black assassins to stay away from the Continental for a while."
Smith shrugged.
"Honestly, I'd prefer everyone came here to take refuge. After all, killing is forbidden here, right?"
Eddie laughed wryly. Refuge? More like a trap—Smith would probably remember their faces and hunt them down once they left.
"Anything I can help you with?"
The entry coin wasn't just a cover charge—it also bought information. Guests could ask for intel here.
Smith pulled out a piece of paper and drew a four-star Dragon Ball symbol on it.
"If anyone comes asking about this or anything similar, send them to me."
Eddie examined the drawing.
"A crystal ball with stars inside?"
"Got it."
As Eddie walked away, Fox asked curiously:
"What's that?"
"And is that the excitement you mentioned?"
Just as Smith was about to reply, Winston arrived and greeted them warmly:
"Mr. Smith. Ms. Fox."
Smith raised his glass.
"Manager Winston, long time no see."
Fox also greeted him:
"Mr. Winston."
Winston snapped his fingers, and Eddie came over.
"Eddie, bring out my bottle of 1972 Macallan. I'd like to offer Mr. Smith and Ms. Fox a drink."
Smith raised an eyebrow.
"Winston, Macallan from that year isn't cheap."
Winston chuckled.
"The purpose of fine liquor is to be enjoyed."
"Besides, fine wine for heroes—a drink like this is nothing for you two."
Soon, Eddie returned with three glasses of whiskey and placed them before the trio.
Smith sniffed his drink and took a sip.
"1972 Macallan is quite good, but I heard the 1926 vintage is the real gem."
Winston laughed.
"1926 Macallan is hard to find—and even harder to afford. Not even I would splurge on that."
Smith didn't respond. Indeed, a 1926 Macallan would run about £2 million and was nearly impossible to find.
Winston continued:
"For a place like ours, running a platform for assassins, we're not exactly in the League's line of fire."
"So, Smith, I assume you're not here to break the hotel's rules?"
Smith shrugged.
"You don't really think we came here to take down the New York Continental, do you?"
"And as for the rules—I quite like them."
Winston smiled at the reply.
"Thank you."
Suddenly, Fox chimed in:
"There's a new contract just posted—$2 million."
"Smith, is that the excitement you were talking about?"
······
(End of chapter)
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